David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Batavia, New York. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea, and Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, as well as at several colleges in the United States, including Arizona State. His work has appeared in five anthologies and over fifty magazines, including California Quarterly, Bogg, Maryland Review, and St. Ann's Review. He was founding editor of Gentle ... more »
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David Kowalczyk Poems
Spring. A great yellow stain. Forsythias burst and daffodils explode. Swallows hurry back from Mexico and are bitten by
As If I Am Your Dream
Here, in the warm white fog, our smiles contain miracles, miracles only an ancient love could ever manifest.
Ars Poetica Haiku
A Time for Roses
Touching them, you sense that beauty within you shall also someday bloom.
Beasts in Shades of Gray
As a boy growing up on a poultry farm, every Saturday morning would find me collecting carrion from the roadside:
This word laughs like cool running water. Agog is a delirious munchkin with eyes as big as ostrich eggs,
Ars Poetica Kowalczyk
The invincible moon orbiting your heart.
1. Life Is The Path 2. He Who Hunts Two Rats, Catches None 3. Disregard Reality 4. I Think, Therefore I'm Dead
A Theory Of Snow
Snow falls in a most disturbing way.
Between Earth and Sky
Across tombstones ancient, cobwebbed, and crumbling slips a cold, bilious fog.
Live Wild. Never Die.
Live as if today was conceived in the savage warmth of prayer.
Breakfast At Gethsemane
Here, in the absence of angels, we live on common ground, like the tender fragments of a dying love.
Goddess Of Yodeling Mermaids And Fire-Ea...
Beneath the crescent moon she dances the tarantella with mammoth Martian crabs of Burracho Beach.
Beside the Beautiful
'My work is done. Why wait? ' -George Eastman
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Spring. A great yellow stain.
Forsythias burst and daffodils explode.
Swallows hurry back from Mexico
and are bitten by
the laughing snows of April.
Spring, the smile
of a ninety-year old man
who can't hear a thing you say
yet keeps talking to you nonetheless.
Spring and dreams
have that in common.